


Full Moon Blooms

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (but actually totally requited), Accountant Boyd, Accountant Erica, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Determined Matchmaker Peter Hale, Florist Peter, Florist Stiles, Flowers, Humor, M/M, Minor Injuries, Multi, Peter & Stiles are bffs fight me, Peter Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Peter is a Little Shit, Pining, Polyamory Mention, Romance, Stiles Stilinski Doesn't Know About Werewolves, Unrequited Love, minor blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 00:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5144477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles had basically been bullied into creeping on the guy, and it was sort of easier to go along with this bullshit if he could keep a little distance from reality.  “Hottie Accountant” was a concept, an avatar— the Platonic form of the perfect guy, so of course Stiles would never have the balls to ask him out.  “Vernon Boyd” was a real person, and thus theoretically attainable. And in that case, <i>theoretically</i>, Stiles was a jackass who’d been pathetically pining over the dude for way too long.  </p><p>Whenever possible, Stiles preferred to forget that he’d become the weirdo florist stalker of a real person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Moon Blooms

**Author's Note:**

> Chris/Victoria/Peter is mentioned, but not seen. The Steter is brief, entirely in the past, and ended amicably (Stiles & Peter are still very good friends). Stiles/Others mentioned in passing, too.

The bell above the door jingled when Stiles shoved his way inside, shoulders first. He was juggling his keys and his phone, in the middle of addressing Scott’s latest freakout via text, plus trying to keep a steady hold on his overstuffed messenger bag, and a tray of coffee and pastry. It was, perhaps, tempting fate too much— Stiles wasn’t the most graceful of creatures, admittedly. Thankfully, as a twenty-five year old adult person, he’d at least filled out since the miserable mess of awkward angles and baby giraffe limbs that had characterized his high school self. He’d grown into the breadth of his shoulders and gained a little lean muscle where he’d formerly been mostly sinew and bone. He looked relatively good? Apparently? Good enough to catch a second glance on occasion, which wasn’t something he’d internalized properly yet.

The point was, no matter how he looked, he still moved like a drunk deer when his mind wandered, or he got distracted, or there was a lot of stuff happening at once. If he managed to trip over his own feet or the pattern in the floor tile, and ended up in a pile of bruised elbows and spilled drinks, he was fucked. Stiles had learned years ago, not long after he started working at Full Moon Blooms, that if his boss didn’t get his regular dose of extra hot, extra large hazelnut latte and glazed cinnamon roll every morning like clockwork, the dude would be a _beast_ for the rest of the day.

His asshole boss, who was already sitting on the stool behind the counter, flipping lazily through a magazine. He didn’t even glance up at the sound of the door.

“You’re late,” Peter said, not even remotely chiding. He sounded bored. “You’re lucky the stock didn’t arrive yet.”

“They were out of cinnamon rolls at Red’s.” Stiles’ bag slipped off his shoulder, the strap catching on his elbow and making the drinks slosh dangerously, but through long practice, he managed to compensate and not drop anything. Peter’s eyes snapped up, not in concern for Stiles’ fumbling, certainly not with any offer to help. He looked _deadly_. “So I waited around for another batch to come out of the oven. Here, toasty fresh and extra gooey, ‘cause it’s still warm.”

Setting the tray on the counter, Stiles finished up the emergency texting to calm Scott the fuck down, then slipped his phone into his pocket. Peter snatched the paper bag tucked between the coffees with reflexes so quick, they had to be supernatural, unfolding the top and taking a deep, appreciative sniff. Stiles had kept his blueberry Danish separate, tucked safely into his messenger bag, because Peter was a greedy, heartless bastard when it came to pastry.

Accepting the lack of biting sarcasm as thanks enough, Stiles pulled his own enormous coffee free from the tray and lugged his bag into the backroom, determinedly chugging some caffeine on the way. When he came back into the main shop a few minutes later, he had his Danish clenched between his teeth and his black apron tied over his work clothes, which were actually just his normal clothes, minus some of his less appropriate graphic tees. Peter might be kind of an ass, but his relaxed approach to the concept of dress code was awesome. The apron was even relatively classy, for an apron: it had the Full Moon Blooms logo embroidered on the chest, in elegant white typeface, with a stylized poppy above _Blooms_ , and a pair of blood red spirals in place of the Os in _Moon_. No all-over floral prints or rictus grins on cartoon daisies.

Peter hadn’t moved much in the time Stiles spent getting his shit together to start his shift. The dude was still perched on his stool, with the magazine spread out on the counter— at least it looked work-related, with wildly complex flower arrangements splashed over the glossy pages. The cinnamon roll had been meticulously disassembled, uncurled from the outside in, and was in the process of being devoured with small, torn-off bites and disturbingly porny moans.

“If that truck isn’t here in ten minutes,” Peter said conversationally, licking sugary glaze off his thumb. “I’m going to eviscerate somebody.”

Stiles sighed around his breakfast, sidling up beside Peter and dragging one of the portable phones over to himself. A late delivery was a shitty way to start a day; unpacking and sorting was going to be rushed, they had their own deliveries to prepare and send out, and neither of them was probably going to get a break until lunch. “I’ll make some calls.”

 

* * *

 

Nobody got eviscerated, but Peter did end up snatching the phone out of Stiles’ hand at one point, in order to make one of their regular wholesalers literally cry. He then proceeded to tear the truck driver a new asshole as well, with biblical levels of wrath, when the dude finally deigned to show up with their delivery. Almost an hour late.

The whole day was a whirlwind after that: unpacking the boxes, sorting and prep work, moving everything into the coolers, throwing some standard mixed bouquets together to fill up any empty spots in the displays, and finishing up the orders that needed to be delivered to customers that morning. The phone started ringing thirty seconds after they were technically open, and then just didn’t stop for the rest of the day.

Other than Peter’s niece Cora, who only worked a couple of hours a day driving the van and delivering the orders when she could squeeze it around her grad school responsibilities, Stiles and Peter were the only ones on shift the entire morning. Stiles honestly didn’t remember most of it, after the fact. He was sure he’d taken orders, because it was his handwriting on half of the forms, but he had zero memory of doing so. He and Peter had been doing this long enough, working with and around each other in the shop, that Stiles could let himself fall into a steady, competent, almost automatic sort of groove instead of getting frantic when things needed to get done _now_.

One of their constantly fluctuating staff of part-timers came in at noon, lightening the load at least a little, even if the kid was a total newbie. Just having another body around to answer the phone and watch the till gave Stiles a chance to check the website for online orders, update a couple of things, and just take a breath. Peter disappeared into the back, possibly to do some arrangements, or possibly so he didn’t snap and eat a customer. The phone calls didn’t slow down, because it was just that time of year. Stiles spent forty-five minutes discussing funeral flowers with an elderly woman, who wasn’t shy about admitting she’d hated the deceased, and wanted an arrangement that was both beautiful and spiteful— _You Died First So I Win_ flowers, basically. He’d eventually called Peter out for a consultation, since that type of malice seemed right up his alley.

Then, before the end of the day, their part-timer managed to shear the tip of a finger off with one of the bunch cutters. Because _of course_ they did. The shrieking was worse than the blood, and the paperwork afterward was even worse than that. Peter’s response was less than sympathetic— _just slap some tape on it and stop blubbering, for fucksake you didn’t even nick the bone_ — and entirely unsurprising. Stiles was already composing the new job ad for part-time help in his head, mentally preparing for another young, delicate soul to jump ship. God, Peter chewed through summer students like they were tic-tacs.

By the time Stiles shuffled into his apartment that night, he was beat. He changed into his softest, baggiest sweats, ate cold pizza standing at his kitchen sink, and face-planted into the sweet, loving embrace of his bed before nine-thirty.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Stiles was on time for his shift, and so was their stock, thank _Christ_. In the lulls between customers, he helped put together some simpler arrangements, mostly a lot of corsages and boutineers, while Peter worked on a couple of elaborate bouquets for special orders. With high school graduations, proms, and summer wedding season, June was a great but fucking crazy month for them. Not as wild as Valentine’s or Mother’s Day, but a steady flood of work for basically the entire month.

At least a portion of the current stress was the trio of fairly large-scale weddings they had coming up in the next couple of weeks, but fuck, Stiles could not think about that right this minute. Especially not the third one, because fuckity _fuck_. He still had to write a goddamn speech.

Peter ordered them both Chinese for lunch, and didn’t stab Stiles when he made a grab for the last dumpling, which was basically _thanks for being amazing and indispensable_ , _I don’t know how I’d run this goddamn shop without your charming personality and adorable face_ , in Peter Hale speak. If someone had told Stiles six years ago, when he was a broke college student who happened to stumble into a summer job at a florist, that he’d still be hanging around Full Moon Blooms at twenty-five, elbow deep in pollen, petals, and floral foam most days, he’d have laughed in their face.

Somehow, he’d gone from random summer employment, to working part-time around his classes, and now here he was, full-time with benefits, and a reserved parking space for Roscoe out back next to Peter’s Audi. Technically, when Peter wasn’t around, Stiles was in charge; the part-timers treated him like their boss, though not with quite the same terrified deference they saved for Peter.

Stiles had no fucking idea how his life had come to this. To be honest, he wasn’t one hundred percent sure that Peter hadn’t hypnotised him, or maybe this was a Stockholm Syndrome thing. But he was, _weirdly_ , really content. Happy, even. He actually enjoyed his job: every day there were different challenges, keeping things interesting enough for him to stay focused, and he was good at it. And hey, Peter might be a megalomaniac dictator with a flair for melodrama and a sense of humour that leaned sharply toward sadistic, but he was also a pretty chill boss, if you were the sort of employee who genuinely wanted to excel. He had nothing but the most scathing venom for the lazy or unmotivated, and zero forgiveness for avoidable fuckups, but endless patience if he thought you were _trying_.

He was also the most overbearing meddler in shit that was _not even slightly his business_.

“Almost forgot,” Peter said after lunch, spinning around in his stool with a dangerously gleeful smirk. He made a grand show of pulling one of their order pads from beside the cash register, and tearing off the first sheet. “Special delivery, needs to go out today. You’re taking it.”

He slid the order form across the counter, pinned under the tip of one finger. Stiles didn’t even have to glance at the address; he already knew what this was.

“Fuck that, I’m not.” There weren’t any customers in the store at the moment, and they’d sent their new, freshly hired part-timer out back to wash buckets and tape vases. Stiles wasn’t worried about the cursing, or the insubordination. “This isn’t funny, you dick. I’m not going over there again.”

“Oh, but you are.” Peter stood up, all liquid grace, prowling around the counter. Stiles resisted the impulse to duck behind the carnations. “My dear Stiles, you know I adore you. You’re the smartass, painfully tactless, and ruthlessly clever son I never wanted.”

“Please never say that again.” There was no avoiding Peter’s arm when it darted out, wrapping firmly around Stiles’ shoulders, tucking him up against Peter’s ribs in a bizarrely paternal but definitely sleazy half-hug. There was also no hope of wriggling away; Peter was shorter than he was, but significantly stronger with his ridiculously muscled pecs and built biceps always threatening to bust out of his obscenely tight shirts. “Oh god, I need an adult.”

The high arch of Peter’s eyebrows spoke volumes and Stiles quickly rephrased. “I need a different adult. Somebody better at adulting than either of us. Like, with reasonable expectations of boundaries and social norms.”

“That certainly sounds tedious,” Peter said, then gave Stiles’ chest a lingering pat with his free hand. More of a caress, really. “I have no idea why you’re being so difficult about this. The entire point of this exercise is to get you laid, as promptly as possible. On a regular schedule, if we can manage it. And I’m even taking your adorably romantic preferences into account and trying my damndest to get you some _tender lovemaking_ from the object of your affections. Which is requiring significantly more effort on my part than just setting you up on a satisfying hook-up, by the way. What more do you want from me, sweetheart, honestly?”

Stiles shot Peter the blandest look he could muster, already knowing the answer before he asked. “Dropping this, and keeping your creepy micromanaging out of my sex life isn’t on the table, is it?”

“You don’t currently have a sex life for me to stay out of.” Peter literally waved Stiles’ objections like he was swatting at an annoying fly. “That’s the problem. A problem, need I remind you, that I’m trying to fix. At both a financial and profound emotional cost to myself.”

Stiles whined under his breath, praying for a customer to walk in, or for their part-timer whose name he couldn’t remember to poke her head out of the back room with a question (Riley? Kylie? Fuck it, Peter hated her shrill laugh so it didn’t matter; she wouldn’t last the week), or maybe for a rogue meteor strike to kill them all. Anything to get him out of this conversation.

“Peter, dude, c’mon. Why do you even care?”

“Why?” Peter sounded genuinely taken aback, as if he couldn’t believe that question had come out of Stiles’ mouth. “Because I _like_ you, Stiles, and I want you to be happy. You’re my favourite. Also, you’re so much more pleasant when you’re getting laid. And hey, maybe I’m just one of those people who loves _love_ , hm?”

By some insane twist of fate, that all sounded like it could be totally legit. After six years of living in each other’s pockets in the small shop, constantly sniping and flirting, and that one instance of sloppy drunken handjobs like four years ago that had never been repeated, he and Peter were sort of friends. Sort of really good friends, maybe. Not quite brothers, like him and Scott, but Peter was probably in his top five closest friends? Fuck, maybe in his top _two_.

How the fuck had that happened?

Setting aside that frankly terrifying realization for the moment, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibilities that Peter really did care about whether or not Stiles was happy. Especially since _Happy Stiles_ was admittedly less grouchy, even on the tough days of wilted flowers, late deliveries, and annoying customers.

And, on top of all that, none of this shit seemed to have been so firmly on Peter’s radar until after the dude’s occasional kinky threesome with that terrifying married couple, Chris and Victoria, had shifted from a _sometimes treat_ to a regular thing. Stiles hadn’t asked for details, but Peter had offered them anyway. The three of them hadn’t been seeing anybody else, except each other, for like five or six months now, and they’d been seeing each other a lot. Peter stayed over at their place more nights a week than he spent at his own apartment.

The honest elation and disbelief in Peter’s voice every time he talked about it, hidden under all the normal snide bullshit, sort of made Stiles feel all squishy. He was definitely grossly happy that Peter was happy. And, theoretically, it was conceivable that Peter felt similarly about him.

 _One of those people who loves love_. Jesus Christ. All it took was a dive dick-first into affectionate and committed polyamory to turn Peter Hale into a fucking sap. A sickeningly romantic, matchmaking piece of shit.

This was so surreal.

“Okay, Yenta,” Stiles said, taking a deep breath. “Fine. I get that you mean well, I do, and I appreciate it. But could you chill out, please? This guy— he’s not interested.” Peter scoffed, obviously about to interrupt, so Stiles bulldozed onward. “No, listen. You’ve been sending me over there with bouquets at least once a week for the past, what, three months? Three months, more than a dozen deliveries, and no dice. No phone number, no dates, not even one lingering look, okay? If you wanna play Cupid for me, go for it, by all means. Flip through your little black book, pick somebody cute you think might be willing to hop on the Stiles Express to orgasm town. Preferably somebody who’s not going to steal my fucking TV this time, and no, I still haven’t forgiven you for that train wreck, because the sex wasn’t even great. But Peter? Seriously. Beating this particular dead horse is getting really embarrassing, for pretty much everybody involved.”

“Embarrassing for _you_ ,” Peter said, having listened to and summarily dismissed every one of Stiles’ carefully considered arguments. “I’m just mildly irritated. Mostly because your terminal inability to flirt effectively has become a pain in my ass.”

“Hey, fuck you, I’m a delight—” The bell above the door jingled, and Stiles managed to duck out of Peter’s hold, lowering his voice to a stern whisper. “We have customers. At this, our real job. The one that pays our bills? Sound familiar?”

“ _I_ have customers.” A powerful hand grabbed Stiles by the nape of the neck, scruffing him before he could take more than one step toward the gangly teenager and middle-aged woman, presumably the kid’s mother, who’d both just walked in looking entirely lost. Odds were good this was a prom sale; Peter despised those, but apparently he was really committed to this _Get Stiles Laid_ plan. “And you, my darling, have a delivery. I already put it together; it’s in the cooler. Hop to it.”

 

* * *

 

It was one goddamn bouquet, but Stiles took the work van anyway. He wasn’t using his own Jeep, his own gas, to drive himself to his own humiliation. Plus, it might make him look like slightly less of a desperate creep if he used their professional vehicle, logos and all, to deliver _another_ bouquet to the gorgeous guy who’d had him silently simmering in lust for months. Hopefully, anyway.

It was hard to dial down the creep factor, though, when he had Peter cranking it up to eleven and dragging him along for the ride.

Finding a decent spot to park, Stiles hopped out and went around to the back doors of the van— sure, he could have just set a single bouquet on the passenger seat for the length of the drive, but he was trying to maintain the illusion that this was a remotely professional venture. He also stuck a Full Moon Blooms pin to the front of his shirt, since he’d already ditched his apron back at the shop. He managed to stab himself in the chest with the pin, but only twice. The green plaid of his shirt was a fairly busy pattern, so any spots of blood seeping through probably wouldn’t be that noticeable.

It was totally cool. He’d go in, deliver the flowers, get the signature, and get the hell out. He’d endure the knowing stares of a couple of Hottie Accountant’s coworkers, and then bask in the low, rumbling _thanks_ he’d get from the dude himself, letting that deep, sugary voice just wash over him. If he was lucky, he’d spend a few minutes attempting a cautiously flirtatious conversation, that would inevitably fizzle into awkward silence way too soon.

Then, after going through all those motions, he could finally book it back to the van, and self-flagellate about his social defects and pathetic ineptitude in peace.

The next time Peter tried to strong-arm him, literally or otherwise, into this fucking _sideshow_ , Stiles was going to quit. Or maybe just sulk in one of the walk-in coolers until Peter agreed to back the hell off.

Grabbing the bouquet— gardenias, chrysanthemums, pink roses, and big, frothy white and pink hydrangeas, arranged in an elegant little ceramic vase instead of floral tissue, with Peter’s usual flawless artistry— Stiles yanked out the floral pick, message card and all. Plucking the card free from the plastic tines, he tossed the pick back into the van, and braced himself for whatever mortifying shit Peter had decided to write this time.

> _Roses are pink_
> 
> _I’m shit at flirtation_
> 
> _But I’ve got no gag reflex_
> 
> _And an oral fixation_
> 
> _Call me? xx_

Stiles’ cell number was neatly printed under that absolute abomination of verse. The worst part was, there had been raunchier poems, tucked into previous bouquets. Stiles had removed and destroyed each of them, during every single one of these deliveries. It wasn’t remotely surprising that Peter apparently had a flair for rhyme, in addition to his filthy fucking mind and utter lack of decency.

Tearing the card in two, Stiles crumpled it up and shoved it into the pocket of his khakis. He’d make a disgustingly wet spitball with it when he got back to the shop, wait until Peter was engrossed with some paperwork, then ping the bastard in the forehead and run like hell.

With all that sorted, Stiles straightened his collar and the short sleeves of his shirt, girded his loins, and headed up to the entrance of the _Brass Tax Accounting_ office. He got a couple of looks along the way, not unusual when carrying a bunch of flowers, and made sure to smile at anyone who caught his eye. The Full Moon Blooms van wasn’t far away, announcing their brand, and while Stiles didn’t usually do their deliveries, he knew how important it was to make a good first impression on any of these potential customers.

The receptionist was new. Stiles stifled a frustrated groan; if it had been the usual woman, she would have let him straight through without this whole song and dance.

“Hi,” Stiles said brightly, standing in front of the desk. The new receptionist glanced up at him with wide, startled eyes, darting between his face, and the flowers. Stiles forced his smile to soften, trying for a reassuring expression. “I’ve got a delivery for Vernon Boyd.”

The receptionist opened her mouth, but if she managed to say anything, Stiles couldn’t hear it. Not over the sudden shout of his own name. Or, close enough to his name to catch his attention.

“Hey, Cute Flower Guy!” Stiles looked over in time to see one of Hottie Accountant’s, or _Vernon Boyd’s_ , coworkers stalking over. He recognized her from his previous visits— long blonde curls, big brown eyes, really pretty smile— but he couldn’t remember them ever speaking before, even just pleasantries. Today, that was evidently going to change. The blonde woman was coming right towards him, with her hair pinned up in a messy bun and murder in her eyes, and Stiles had precisely no shame about holding the bouquet in front of his chest like a shield.

“You,” the woman said, stopping less than three feet away, and jabbing one finger in the air between them, pointing at him. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” Stiles said, even though he wasn’t late, or sorry about it. The only thing he was sorry about was the fact that he was standing in this accounting office at all. Again.

“I was worried you weren’t coming anymore.” The woman closed the distance even more, but Stiles was used to working in a small flower shop with Peter _Personal Space is for Plebeians_ Hale. He didn’t flinch, even when the woman reached out, flapping her hand inches away from him, ushering him into farther the office.

“Erica,” the receptionist started to say, clearly unsure, but she was immediately shushed.

“It’s all good!” The blonde, Erica, motioned for the receptionist to stay in her seat, all the while urging Stiles along. “No problems. Cute Flower Guy can come right in, I promise. He’s here so much, we ought to put him on the payroll.”

Stiles felt the back of his neck heat up, and the tips of his ears, and hoped against hope that he wasn’t going too red. The receptionist seemed to decide that they weren’t worth the trouble, and left them to it. Stiles let himself be led, as if he didn’t have the path down to Hottie Accountant’s cramped office memorized by now.

“Where were you Tuesday?” Erica asked, leaning in. Her hand was on his arm now, gripping him right above the elbow, firm but not tight. Once again, he probably would have been far less comfortable with the contact if he wasn’t already so desensitized from Peter’s constant casual manhandling. “You always come on Tuesdays. Sometimes Thursdays or Fridays, too, but _always_ Tuesdays.”

Did he? Stiles hadn’t really been paying that much attention to how precisely Peter scheduled his weekly public humiliation. Every day at the shop was different, and they were usually busy doing _something_ , especially around holidays and prime wedding season. The weeks had a tendency to blend together.

“Uh, well, we were pretty swamped on Tuesday.” Stiles was almost one hundred percent sure that today was Thursday. “And yesterday, too. We’re in the middle of prepping for two weddings next week, and then another one the week after, and our order from the wholesalers showed up late yesterday morning. And it’s prom and grad season, too. I have no idea why I’m telling you all this.”

“I have a compassionate aura.” Erica didn’t seem bothered by his verbal diarrhea. If anything, the smile quirking the corners of her lips looked amused and _fond_. Like Stiles was a particularly dim, but beloved animal doing an adorable trick. “It makes people want to open up. C’mon, in here.”

The room she pulled them into was not Hottie Accountant’s office. It looked like a break room, with a basic kitchenette, table and chairs, and a small sofa pushed against the far wall. It was spartan, but in a sleek way. Modern, not miserable. It was also empty of people, other than the two of them.

“Okay, CFG, here’s the deal.” Erica laid her hands on his shoulders, looking him dead in the eye. Stiles swallowed, fingers tightening around the vase in his hands. “I can’t deal with this anymore. I don’t want to power walk all the way downtown every single day on my lunch break, just so Boyd can pretend he’s not creeping a look when we pass your store. Yeah, okay, my calves look amazing from the extra workout, but I’ve broken two heels in three months.”

“What,” Stiles said, more breath than words, but Erica wasn’t finished.

“The last two days,” she said. “Have been hell. The sad puppy eyes have been out in force, because let’s be real here, you basically stood him up. Can you imagine that ridiculously handsome face _moping_? Just tear my heart out and stomp on it, seriously.”

Stiles could hear his own blood rushing in his ears, and there was some definite tunnel vision going on. He had a distracted, passing flicker of thought: he hoped he didn’t pass out in the middle of Hottie Accountant’s office, or puke on Erica’s shoes.

Hottie Accountant was _moping_. About him.

The idea that this immense crush wasn’t as unilateral as Stiles had assumed, as he’d resigned himself to accept, buzzed and crackled like a short circuit in his brain. He was reeling.

“Listen up, cutie.” Erica shifted her grip on him, actually cupping his jaw in both of her cool, soft hands. Her skin smelled faintly citrusy and herbal, like the overpriced moisturizer Peter used regularly. “Boyd is my best friend in the whole wide world. He’s the sweetest, kindest, cuddliest teddy bear of a guy, but when it comes to actually realising what a great catch he is, and noticing how often people are falling over themselves for that gorgeous smile, he’s clueless. When it comes to his own feelings, he’s shy as hell, so if you’re waiting on him to make the first move, you’re SOL. You’ll be delivering flowers to his room at the old folks’ home before he musters up the nerve to actually do anything.”

Stiles felt his stomach lurch, but not in a bad way. It was a fluttery, too warm feeling, starting deep in his gut and radiating outward. Hottie Accountant was _shy_. Hottie Accountant, Boyd, who had to be at least six foot three, over two hundred pounds of what looked like pure muscle under the drab but still weirdly flattering suits Stiles had always seen him wearing. A really big guy, with a strong jaw and gentle, deep brown eyes that Stiles could happily drown himself in. He looked like a fucking model, and he was _shy_ , and it was a horrible thing to get all twitterpated over. Stiles knew better than most that being shy wasn’t a cute quirk; it could be awful and uncomfortable, and immensely frustrating.

But, somehow, it made the dude seem more real.

Now he wasn’t just _Hottie Accountant_ , who’d been a star player in most of Stiles’ dirtiest and sappiest fantasies for months. He’d been Hottie Accountant ever since he’d dropped by the shop back in March, looking for something for a retirement party at his office. Stiles had made a complete ass of himself, yammering at the dude for twenty minutes about the pros and cons of their different prepared arrangements and potted plants, while Peter just about died laughing behind the counter.

No, now he was Vernon Boyd, but more than that, he was _Boyd_ , Erica’s best friend. Evidentially a cuddly teddy bear of a dude who was _too shy_ to say anything. But maybe, just maybe, he might not be entirely unreceptive to Stiles’ affections.

That was the last straw. Dude was lethally attractive, and now he was also adorable, and too real, and Stiles was _fucking gone_.

“Basically,” Erica said, oblivious to the mental marathon Stiles had just run. “You’ve got two choices here: either you’re ready to walk in that office and ask him out, or you’ve got to use this opportunity to pull the band-aid completely off, turn around, and walk away. Because all this pining? The lovesick, broody thing? Trudging halfway across town every day for mediocre soup and a sandwich when there’s a very nice café half a block from here in the opposite direction? It’s not good. None of it is good, Cute Flower Guy. I don’t like it when people make my friend sad, and ruin my shoes.”

“I don’t—” Stiles stopped, looking down at the delicate pink and white bouquet. Peter had really done a great job keeping things just the right amount of classy, without being ostentatious. Soft and friendly around the edges, not perfectly symmetrical or overly dramatic. It looked more like an arrangement Stiles would have put together, rather than Peter’s usual precision.

God, Peter was such a fucking _sap_ , and Stiles loved the freaky, overbearing son of a bitch so much.

“Yeah,” he said, taking a deep, fortifying breath. “Yeah, okay. Okay. I’ll take door number one. Let’s— Let’s do this. Walk in the office, ask him out. Okay.”

He didn’t expect the overjoyed squeal that nearly deafened him, or the beautiful woman in the watery silk blouse to suddenly _pick him up_ with the force of her hug. Stiles grunted as his heels lifted off the floor, trying to form words as Erica squeezed the air out of him.

“ _Flowers_ ,” he squeaked, barely louder than the creaking of his own ribs, and thankfully Erica backed off before the bouquet was crushed beyond salvation. Some of the hydrangeas were a little flattened, but a quick shuffle of a couple blooms and Stiles had them all looking perky again.

“You got this, CFG. I believe in you.” Erica pinched his cheek, and gave his hair a completely unnecessary ruffle. It was less inappropriate than the swat on the ass Peter given him before he’d left the shop. Stiles’ life, seriously. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

After Erica pointed him in the right direction from the break room door, Stiles could navigate his way. He’d been down this hallway more than a dozen times, all the way to the fourth door on the left; the one with _V. Boyd,_ _CPA_ printed on the nameplate.

The door was always shut like ninety percent of the way, but never completely closed. Stiles paused outside for a couple of seconds, centring himself, then reached up and gave the door a cheery tap, _shave-and-a-haircut_ style.

“Yeah, come in.” The voice from the other side was the rich, rolling baritone he’d hoped to hear, but with a definite impatient edge that Stiles hadn’t ever heard before. He straightened his posture, then pushed the door open and took a step inside.

Boyd didn’t immediately look up; he was hunched over with his elbows braced on his desk, rubbing his eyes and his forehead with one wide hand. There were papers strewn all over the desktop, and a pair of tortoiseshell framed glasses pushed up on top of his head, perched on the tight buzz of his hair.

“Uh, hey,” Stiles said, after a beat of silence, and watched Boyd’s hand freeze where it was pressed across his eyes.

Slowly, the hand dropped, and Stiles found himself on the receiving end of a blank, unreadable stare. It was… not the most encouraging reaction.

Anxiety started to claw its way up his throat, strangling his voice, but Stiles managed to force out a rather strained: “Special delivery.”

He held up the bouquet, and Boyd’s attention briefly tracked over to the lush, cotton-candy puff of flowers, before flitting back to Stiles’ face. Stiles’ very warm, possibly equally pink face. _Fuck_.

There was another silence, longer this time, before Boyd shook his head and started gathering up some papers, sliding them into a pile and clearing a spot on the desk.

“You can just put it here,” he said, while at precisely the same moment, Stiles blurted: “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Boyd blinked, slowly. Stiles felt the torrent of words bubble up, and didn’t have enough impulse control to stop them from rushing out.

“It’s just, Tuesday was smoking busy,” he said, tapping a nervous rhythm against the vase with his fingers. “It’s June, right, which is big for proms and grad, and we’re doing a couple of weddings, too. And, well, we sort of had a minor flood in the back room when one of our summer hires left a sink running. Then yesterday our morning delivery from the wholesaler was like an hour late, which throws the whole day off. Pretty sure I nearly had stroke, and if my boss doesn’t stop torturing part-timers, we’re never gonna get any decent help trained, and then I really will have a stroke, I swear to god—"

Boyd was staring at him, still as a statue, and Stiles took two big lurching steps forward. Flowers and water nearly ended up all over the carpet, vase slipping in his sweaty palms, but by some miracle he rallied at the last second and dropped the bouquet safely onto the desk with a rattling thud.

“Thanks, Stiles,” Boyd said quietly, reminding Stiles that he’d actually told the guy his name when they’d first met, and Boyd remembered it. But Erica had called him _Cute Flower Guy_ , CFG, and the nicknames had flowed so easily out of her mouth, as if she spoke them regularly. Did she just like them, or did it mean that Boyd hadn’t actually told her Stiles’ real name?

Did that mean that _Boyd_ called him Cute Flower Guy, too?

It was only fair, really. Stiles had been calling Boyd _Hottie Accountant_ pretty much exclusively, both in conversation with his friends and in the privacy of his own head.

He’d tried thinking of him as _Vernon_ once or twice— he’d known the dude’s name since he’d sold him that first bouquet of vibrant gerberas, and saw it stamped on the front of his credit card— but it’d never felt right. Sure, they saw each other at least once a week, but the longest conversation they’d ever had was still that first one, back at Full Moon. And that had been mostly Stiles talking, _babbling_ , while Boyd listened.

Since then, Stiles had basically been bullied into creeping on the guy. It was sort of easier to go along with Peter’s bullshit if Stiles could keep a little distance from reality. Hottie Accountant was a concept, an avatar— the Platonic form of the perfect guy, so of course Stiles would never have the balls to ask him out. Vernon Boyd was a real person, and thus theoretically attainable. And in that case, _theoretically_ , Stiles was a jackass who’d been pathetically pining over the dude for way too long.

Whenever possible, Stiles prefered to forget that he’d become the weirdo florist stalker of a real person. For the sake of his own sanity, tentative as it was.

He couldn’t really forget it right now. Oh shit. This was really happening.

Oh _shit_.

Boyd sat up a bit straighter in his chair, pulling the glasses off his head and setting them on a stack of paperwork. He wasn’t wearing the jacket of his suit, which made this the first time Stiles was seeing the guy in shirtsleeves. Specifically, the sleeves of his lavender dress shirt, which were neatly rolled up to the elbows, revealing dark, muscled forearms. He had his purple striped tie slightly loosened, and the first button at his collar popped open.

Stiles felt a little lightheaded, catching a glimpse of so much bare skin at once, when every other time he’d seen the guy, Boyd had been totally buttoned up. Dizziness was a good excuse for the next words that flopped out of his mouth.

“Hey, so, you wanna go to a wedding?” Boyd’s eyes widened fractionally, his eyebrows lifting maybe half an inch, and Stiles was trying _really hard_ to get some traction with reading those micro-expressions.

Fuck it. Stiles was committed now, no mulligans, full speed ahead.

“Just, yeah,” he said, rubbing his knuckles together since he didn’t have the bouquet to keep his hands occupied. “The, uh, weddings I mentioned? My best friend is one of the grooms, the week after next. Second Saturday in July. I’m sorta playing double-duty, doing the flowers and the best man thing, but so far I’m going stag, and I was wondering if you’d maybe want to come with me? As my… date?”

Shit, goddamn fucking _shit_ , that was a terrible idea. That was way too much pressure for a first date, and so awkward, since Stiles would be paired off with Lydia for all the best man and maid of honour stuff, when he wasn’t tied up with stopping Scott from hyperventilating himself to death before the vows. Add to that the stress of keeping a leash on the rest of the knuckleheads Scott had chosen as groomsmen, trying to keep his cool around Scott’s asshole dad, plus everything he’d be freaking out about with the flowers—

“Okay.” Every thought in Stiles’ head came to a screeching halt at the sound of that single, mellow word. Boyd picked up a smartphone that had been tucked under some papers, swiping at the screen with his thumb. “I thought— doesn’t matter. Second Saturday? The eleventh, yeah?”

“Yeah?” It sounded more like a question than an answer. It was sort of both, to be honest. “So, okay? Really?”

“Yes, really.” Boyd paused, and with a flash of pink, his tongue swept out across his full bottom lip, leaving it wet and shiny under the fluorescent lights. Stiles was momentarily distracted, _sue him_ , and might have missed the infinitesimal flicker of worry wrinkling the dude’s forehead. “If that’s— Unless you don’t want—”

“I do!” Maybe he had too much wedding stuff on the brain, but basically shouting _I do_ at Boyd brought up a whole host of profoundly embarrassing thoughts about white picket fences, and holy fucking hell, he hadn’t even _kissed_ the guy. Stiles’ face was on fire. He was going to spontaneously combust. “I mean, I do want. Wedding, date, you. I really… yeah.”

Spontaneous combustion would be a mercy, at this point.

Stiles’ heart basically stopped in his chest when Boyd’s mouth twitched into a small, possibly bashful sort of smile. The dude grabbed a business card out of the plastic holder behind his computer monitor, along with a pen, and quickly wrote something on the back of the card. He held it out toward Stiles.

“Here,” Boyd said. “That’s my cell on the back. What time on the eleventh?”

“Um, ceremony starts at four.” Stiles took the card, and maybe their fingers touched a little, but it was cool. He was cool. There’d been Stiles-to-Boyd skin contact at least a half dozen times now, because sometimes when he got the guy to sign for his flowers, their hands brushed. Not that he was keeping track, because that would be creepy. Or pathetic. “I can text you the details? Or... call, maybe? Is that— Would that be cool?”

“I sort of figured that was implied, when I gave you my number.” Oh god, the deadpan humour. Stiles was weak for every moment of desert-dry but oddly gentle snarking he’d managed to coax out of the guy over the past couple of months. Today was no different.

Well, actually, today was completely different. Because today, Stiles had finally pulled his head out of his ass. And Boyd had agreed to go on a date with him. Stiles had asked, and he’d said _okay_.

Oh _god_. Peter was going to be insufferably smug.

“Do you wanna maybe get some coffee, too?” Go big or stay home, right? Stiles scrubbed one hand over the nape of his neck, bolstered significantly by the fact that Boyd’s tiny smile hadn’t faded. The guy looked very pleasantly surprised by this whole conversation, maybe even a little charmed, and Stiles could definitely get used to that expression on that face, directed his way. “Or dinner, sometime? ‘Cause things might get slightly hectic at the wedding, and now that I’m thinking it through, you seeing me all sweaty and high-strung, pulling my hair out about wilting nosegays, and trying not to choke on my own tongue in the middle of giving my toast… it might not be the great first date impression I wanna make. Even if I’m going to absolutely kill it on the dance floor at reception.”

“I could do dinner,” Boyd said. The tension between them wasn’t suffocating anymore; in the last few minutes it had shifted into something less uncomfortable, and more pleasantly charged. It felt cautiously hopeful, like _potential_. “We could save the Chicken Dance and the Macarena for a second date, if you want.”

“Dude, please. I’m a Cha-Cha Slide kinda guy, all the way.” _Second date_. Stiles couldn’t stop the spread of his huge, goofy grin, especially not when he noticed the amused crinkles at the corners of Boyd’s warm eyes.

He probably looked like a complete dork, but at least he resisted the urge to punch the air.

 

* * *

 

He gave into the same urge the next night, while standing on the stoop of his apartment building, with Boyd leaning down to brush their mouths together in a soft, exploratory goodnight kiss.

It took a second for the reality of the situation to register— Stiles was being kissed, so fucking sweetly, by the unbearably handsome dude he’d been daydreaming about, and lowkey stalking at work, for over three months. And while this toe-curling, gently deepening kiss was unfolding, he’d unconsciously raised his arms into the air above their heads, in celebration.

Stiles dropped his arms the instant he noticed, winding them around Boyd’s broad shoulders in a desperate attempt to distract from his momentary lapse into utter uncoolness.

If the huff of Boyd’s laugh between the press of their lips was any indication, the distraction hadn’t been as effective as Stiles hoped. He shuffled closer anyway, curling up into the bulk and welcoming warmth of Boyd’s body. The guy could fill out a suit, sure, but there was definitely something to be said for the sight of his ass in a pair of jeans, and the way his shirt stretched across his pecs, open at the collar, no tie.

The weight of big hands gripping Stiles’ hips was anchoring, steady; it helped rein in the bubbly, euphoric feeling of their breath mingling, before Stiles floated away entirely. They both tasted like the mints that had come with the restaurant bill, and a hint of chocolate lingering from dessert. Boyd was wearing some kind of really subtle cologne or aftershave, woodsy with a touch of spice, that made Stiles want to rub all over him like a very friendly cat. Unless that was just Boyd’s natural scent. In which case, Stiles was just going to fucking _melt_ , right here and now, and hope Boyd wasn’t turned off by his date dissolving into a puddle.

Their heads tilted a bit more, almost in unison, and suddenly a balmy California evening was stoking hotter. Downright _steamy_ , really. Chests bumped, and neither of them stepped back. Stiles slid his hands up Boyd’s neck, cradling the back of his skull, and dragging bitten-down nails against the bristles of neatly buzzed hair. Boyd’s low sounds of pleasure rumbled into his mouth, making his tongue tingle.

All in all, it was one hell of a first kiss. Stiles arched into all of it, like a flower turning towards the sun.

“Jesus,” Stiles said when they drifted apart, slowly, mouths still near enough to feel humid. “Uh, wow. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Boyd repeated, and fuck, if he was going to smile like _that_ , splitting bright and broad across his face, Stiles was morally obligated to kiss him again.

END


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